For A Moment the Torturers

I can let the nightmares go,
the torturers,
     the rich against
          the poor

When your breath
against my chest
moves, and warms
our difficult love
I forget.
     Forgive me.
          I do.

When your arms, your face,
your unbroken legs
create the space,
the invitation begs
us to our primal nature
as once it daily did, no matter
     curtain up or curtain down;

for moments
     we go blind
          to all the bodies there
          being tortured by some tortured boys

and find each other
on the far sweet side
     of the ever present


Will Kirkland
1979, Spain